


To Keep Quiet

by Salambo06



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Conversations, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Fights, First Kiss, Ignore TFP entirely, Love Confessions, M/M, Parentlock, S4 fix-it, TST and TLD fix-it, friends to lover, mention of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 07:19:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9646025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salambo06/pseuds/Salambo06
Summary: Four days. In the end, that’s all it takes for Sherlock to accept the fact that there is a chance John might be feeling just as desperate for more as he is.Still, it doesn’t change the fact that they need to talk. Sherlock counts it down to four conversations in total, at least. He’s certain John is just as aware of this fact as he is, but still, Sherlock finds himself unable to think of any plan of action.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So that's it, my first proper s4 (ignoring TFP entirely) fix-it is finished. This was for sure the hardest fic I’ve written and even if I tried to follow what happened in TST and TLD, I still strongly believe we haven’t seen the truth during this season. So this is just me trying to put some sense into these two episodes and what could have happened next in this particular canon version. 
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it, and remember that this is only my readings of things. 
> 
> Pauline.
> 
> Thank you to [Heather](http://astudyinsnoggy.tumblr.com/) for her job as a beta !  
> [My Tumblr](http://johnlockfulfillment.tumblr.com/)  
> 

 

> **"To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves"**
> 
>         Federico García Lorca, Blood Wedding and Yerma

 

 

**i**

Sherlock wakes up to a baby crying inside the flat. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, even less going to his bedroom and slipping under the covers. He’s still dressed in his navy suit and white shirt, the one he had put on two- no, three days ago. He can’t recall the last time he slept either. He can’t remember much these days, anyway.

He searches for his phone blindly, hand roaming over the mattress before digging under the pillow and finding it there. _10:04 am_. When had he gone to bed? How long has he been sleeping? Why is his throat so dry? And god, why is there a baby crying inside his flat?

It takes another four seconds for the answer, blatantly simple, to present itself.

Unable to repress a groan at his sore body, Sherlock rolls to his back and gets to his feet. It occurs to him that the bad smell in the room is coming from his clothes, and he makes a mental note to shower. Another thing he can’t remember, showering. The cries intensify from the living room, and with a sigh, Sherlock opens his bedroom door.

John’s head snaps up but he continues pacing around the living room, Rosie crying in his arms and the marks under his eyes darker than usual. They don’t say anything for what could be hours, or seconds, maybe a full minute. Sherlock doesn’t know.

“It’s temporary,” John finally declares, and only then does Sherlock notice the suitcases and bags near John’s chair.

He nods, swallowing and trying to wash away the bad taste in his mouth. John looks back down at his daughter, _shhhh Rosie, calm down, calm down, it’s alright darling_. Sherlock’s eyes drop to the tiny human being in John’s arms. She’s grown, he can tell. He wonders for a moment if she still has John’s eyes but pushes the thought away.

He finds himself wanting to walk to them and take them both into his arms. His traitorous mind provides him with the exact feeling of John’s hair against his cheek, and Sherlock can barely repress the long shiver starting down his spine and ending inside his fingertips. He doesn’t move an inch.

“She hasn’t stopped crying since we left,” John says, and Sherlock isn’t sure if he’s talking to himself or to him, so he doesn’t reply. “I’ve tried everything.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, the first syllable forming low in his throat but chooses otherwise. He has no idea what John should do. In the six months since Rosie was born, he had seen her seven times and not once had he been alone with her. She’s probably missing her mother, Sherlock thinks before frowning. Does she even remember her mother?

“You smell,” John declares, eyes snapping back up and staring at him.

Sherlock hates that he can’t help but look away, one hand tugging on his jacket as if he could stop the odor from spreading. He forces himself to meet John’s stare and holds it, not certain if he’s daring him to say anything else or only trying to find some reassurance there.

“There’s still some powder formula in the top cupboard,” he finally says, his voice hoarse, before turning around and closing his bedroom door behind him.

He reaches for his phone on the bed, types quickly _I need you to bring Rosie’s furniture here_ , and heads for the bathroom.

 

**ii**

John stares at the ceiling of his room and tries to focus on Rosie’s regular breathing next to him. They had moved to 221B two days ago and she finally seems to accept her new home. _No. Her temporary home_. They’re not going to stay. They can’t, really. It would be insane, a baby in Baker Street. He can’t do that to Sherlock, can’t force a baby on him, can’t force himself back into this life. It doesn’t matter how much John craves it.

The bed feels strange. It’s almost funny. The first night he had tossed and turned, rolling from his back to one side to the other, to his stomach before sleep had finally overtaken him. Maybe not funny, after all. Mostly strange. His body should remember the mattress, should remember the two years he slept here, staring at the exact same stain on the ceiling. Nothing had changed, except for the baby’s furniture and clothes now.

Still, John stares and stares, and once again, can’t seem to fall asleep.

He makes sure to check on Rosie before leaving the room, descending the stairs as quietly as he can and putting on his dressing gown. The only light downstairs comes from the windows and John decides against turning the lights on. He just needs to use the loo and maybe drink a glass of water, then he’ll head back upstairs and force himself to sleep if he has to.

“John,” comes Sherlock’s voice, unexpected and making him jump with surprise.

“What the he- Sherlock, what are you doing in the dark?”

Now that he’s paying attention, John can discern Sherlock’s figure, lying on the sofa.

“Thinking,” Sherlock answers, his voice almost too quiet in the already quiet room.

“You scared me,” John says, more to say something than to point out the obvious.

Sherlock doesn’t reply but his eyes find John’s in the dark, silent questions dancing over his face, but none of them breaching his lips. John forgets about the loo, forgets about the water, and goes to sit in his chair. He looks over the clock, _02:45 am._ Christ, he should be sleeping.

“What are you thinking about?”

His question remains unanswered for another minute, maybe two. When Sherlock does decide to talk, it’s all too fast.

“A human brain has more connections than there are stars in our galaxies but we only use a ridiculous percentage of it’s capacity. Humans, even the most brilliant ones, remain, in fact, quite stupid.”

John smiles, asking “Are you saying you’re stupid?” before realising what it implies.

Sherlock doesn’t comment on it, and John looks back at the empty chair facing his. They haven’t sat in their chairs since he came back, he thinks and at the same time realises he misses it.

“I’m saying it could all be so much-” he stops, as if searching for the right words. Sherlock Holmes never searches for the right words. “Nevermind.”

John hates it, hates the quietness, hates his mattress, hates Sherlock Holmes and his incapacity to finish a sentence.

 

**iii**

John is mad at him.

He doesn’t need to say anything, Sherlock can tell. He can tell in the way John holds back during breakfast, inhaling sharply and tapping his fingers against the table every time Sherlock says something, moves or makes a noise. He can tell in the way John refuses to look at him sometimes, acknowledging his presence, even talking to him, but not once meeting his eyes. He can tell in the way John goes to sleep at the same time as Rosie and only comes down when she’s ready in the morning.

Sherlock can tell, and for once, he wishes he couldn’t.

It’s been four days and John hasn’t talked about his plan for the future. He made it clear he isn’t going to stay, that he’s searching for a flat for him and Rosie, and that soon they’ll be gone. Sherlock isn’t sure yet what’s worse: knowing John is going to leave, or not not knowing when.

He tries to busy himself in some experiment or book. Lestrade isn’t allowing him to come back to cases yet, not after the whole mess with Culverton. In any way, Sherlock isn’t sure he could be of any help at the moment. His ribs still hurt when he stays up too long, and some bruises have yet to fade away. He doesn’t mention it to John, obviously.

It occurs to him sometimes, late at night, that they should probably talk before it explodes. Sherlock knows John, maybe too much, and it is only a matter of time before he can’t hold it back. It seems like the most plausible solution to their problem, except they’ve never been good at talking.

“Sherlock, are you listening?”

Sherlock looks back up to John, sitting in front of him at the kitchen table, “Yes.”

John doesn’t pick up on his lie, “I was reminding you,” he says with a sigh, “that you’re looking over Rosie this morning.”

Sherlock’s eyes find Rosie, sitting in her high chair and looking as if the toy in front of her is the most brilliant thing she’s ever seen. “I am?”

“Yes, I’m going to visit some flats, remember?”

Sherlock keeps his eyes on Rosie, ignoring the sudden ache spreading inside his chest, and takes another bite of his toast. She seems genuinely intrigued in her toy and Sherlock wonders if he could rate them according to her interest. That could be an experiment. But not today, he can’t even bend down without wincing in pain. He can’t take care of a baby in this condition.  

“Can’t you take her with you?” He asks, finally able to look back at John, but this might not have been a good idea after all. “John?”

John’s features remains frozen into this mask of _hurt_ for another second before he gets to his feet and picks Rosie up, “You know what, I’ll take her. We’ll be out of your way before you know it.”

Sherlock stands up, barely able to start calling his name before John is out of the kitchen and climbing the stairs far too harshly. John is mad at him, and somehow, Sherlock had just made it even worse.

 

**iv**

They fight six days after he’s back. John can tell the moment their conversation is turning into something much more dangerous, but he does nothing to stop it. His anger is building, has been building for too long, and at this point, John just wants to let it go.

“You’re being ridiculous, John,” Sherlock continues to talk, maybe unaware of John’s state of mind, but John doubts it. “It’ll be perfectly safe for any childr-”

“For fuck’s sake, will you just stop this!”

Sherlock stops dead, turning around and staring at him for a long second, “What are you talking about?”

“You!” John snaps, “You and your ideas to make the flat safer for Rosie. It doesn’t matter if it’s safe or not!”

Sherlock takes a step back, frowning and there’s this tremor in his lips again, “I was just thinking about your daughter’s safety, John.”

“She’s fine, perfectly fine,” John continues, “She’s just six months old, she can’t even crawl or grab anything!”

“She will at some point, John,” Sherlock protests, “I’m fairly certain babies grow up.”

John shakes his head, letting out a nervous laugh, “Don’t make me look like an idiot, Sherlock.”

“I’m no-”

“Just stop it,” John cuts him, “By the time she could do all of those things, she won’t even be coming to Baker Street anymore!”

Sherlock’s face closes off at the words, taking another step back and staring at John in silence for several seconds. “I see,” he says, almost too softly for the tone of their conversation, and John hates it.

He hates himself even more.

“Just stop trying to make this flat safe for er,” he says one last time.

Sherlock isn’t looking away from him, “Fine.”

John can’t hold his stare any longer. He turns toward the stairs and all but flees the room, remembering to be careful not to wake Rosie, and leans against his door as soon as it’s closed. Shutting his eyes tight, he forces himself to breathe in and out slowly, _in, out, in, out_.

It takes him four minutes to realise exactly what he just said to Sherlock.

It only takes one to snap the door open and climb down the stairs in a hurry.

Sherlock is sitting in his chair. He doesn’t move when John walks in, doesn’t move when he sits in his own chair, doesn’t move when he lets out a loud sigh.

“You’re making the flat safe for her,” John says in a whisper.

“I already told you I’ll stop doing so,” Sherlock replies after a second, not looking at him. Not looking at anything in particular, in fact.

“No,” John breathes out, “You’re making the flat safe for her and I didn’t understood.” Sherlock is still not moving. “You thought about it, you looked for ideas, you tried to find solutions because you thought she’ll be around when she’ll be old enough to reach for your flasks and drink what’s inside, when she’ll be old enough to crawl inside your bedroom and-”

“Do you have a point with all this, John, or are you simply stating the obvious,” Sherlock asks, his focus now back on him, and John holds his breath.

“My point is that I’m an idiot,” he says after a second or two. Sherlock doesn’t react. “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

“You did,” Sherlock argues.

“I did,” John replies, “and I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it was something you- you considered.”

Sherlock frowns, “Of course I’ve considered it, John.”

John feels a knot form in his chest, and for a second, he’s afraid he’s going to say something stupid. _Why? Do you want us here? Do you want me here? Do you want me?_ _Still?_

“That’s-” he clears his throat, “I’m happy you did.”

Sherlock frowns some more, eyes roaming all over his face now, and John really hopes he’s doing a good job at hiding his feelings for once. Rosie starts crying upstairs but they don’t move for another minute, maybe two.

 

**v**

Sherlock isn’t sure what changed, but John is laughing again.

It happens one afternoon. Rosie is playing on the rug, alone and apparently fine with it. They had a quiet morning, Sherlock had worked on some old cases while John had taken care of Rosie, and they had shared a nice and comfortable time at lunch. Now, John is reading a book in his chair, his eyes glancing at Rosie each time he turns a page, and sometimes at him too.

Sherlock tries to focus on his own studies, and fails miserably.

“I didn’t realise you were working on something military related” John remarks suddenly.

Sherlock looks at the different notes and books on the coffee table, “Just keeping myself busy.”

John puts his book aside, “What is it? Maybe I can help.”

Sherlock focuses back on the paper he’s reading, “I’m fine.”

“Come on,” John smiles, leaning forwards, “tell me.”

Sherlock sighs quietly, not certain how he can make it all sound serious enough. He places the paper he’s reading with the rest of them and sits up on the sofa. He glances at Rosie, then John, Rosie again.

“Come on,” John says again, “You know I won’t give up now, I’m too curious.”

Sherlock lets out another sigh, “I’m studying military posture, and specifically, the training of the Queen’s Guards.”

Sherlock counts down to the moment John will understand, and the bright laugh echoing in the room takes him entirely by surprise. He stares at John, unable to look away, unable to move. He can’t remember the last time John had laughed, here, with him. A real laugh, this sound Sherlock had learned by heart and played inside his head far too many times.

“Bum itch,” John says between laughs, “You’re researching bum itch.”

Sherlock pretends to be offended, just for the sake of it, “It’s a very practical research, John.”

John’s laugh dies a little but he’s still smiling as he declares, “I’m sure it is.”

They’re still staring at each other, and Sherlock can’t seem to be able to put a name on what’s happening inside his head at the moment. He wants to stand up, to walk to John and take him in his arms. He wants to hold him, to breathe him and yes, to kiss him. He wants to make John laugh again and swallow the sound directly from his lips.

“I was thinking,” John says, soft and smiling, “maybe we could go to the park.” Sherlock nods, not trusting his own voice. “The weather is nice and Rosie loves it, and I know you do too.”

“I do not love it,” Sherlock objects, and John is laughing again, so he doesn’t mind.

He stands up, and Sherlock imitates him. They continue to stare.

“I’ll get her ready and we can go, then?”

Sherlock nods again, “Yes.”

John doesn’t move for another three seconds before going to pick up Rosie. He walks by Sherlock with a smile, their arms brushing, and it takes far too long for Sherlock to realise John could have avoided this contact easily, if he had wanted to.

 

**\-------- + --------**

 

Sherlock is playing his violin downstairs.

John closes his eyes and buries himself deeper under the covers. He listens for as long as he dares to. He should get up, Rosie is already downstairs and even if Sherlock assures him he doesn’t mind, John doesn’t want to impose on him. Still, he keeps his eyes closed and listens.

It takes another two melodies before John makes the most important, and yet so simple, decision of his life. Today, when he goes downstairs and kisses his daughter hello, he’s going to stop fighting. Just stop. It doesn’t matter what Sherlock will be able to read on his face from now on. John is going to stop pretending he’s not madly in love with this brilliant man downstairs, and just see what happens.

Pushing the covers away, John lets the now too familiar ache inside his chest began to fade away.

 

____________

Sherlock can’t tear his eyes away from John.

It’s written all over him, in every gesture, in every eye contact, in every soft breath and playful word. All of the sudden, Sherlock is faced with possibilities, and he’s not quite sure what to do with any of them.

He picks back up his violin and plays John’s favorite song. He doesn’t look away, his fingers moving on their own violation and his mind strangely calm. He plays for what seems like hours. There is a smile on John’s lips and his eyes keep coming back to Sherlock every now and then. He says _that was beautiful_ and Sherlock can’t remember how lungs are supposed to function.

He inhales sharply, and thinks _I love you._

 

**\-------- + --------**

**five**

It takes four days for Sherlock to accept what he can now see in plain sight. It’s quite easy, in the end. (John is making it easy).

For starters, he smiles at Sherlock (all the time). There is a smile for the morning, warm and somehow still full with sleep. There is a smile for breakfast, amused and just a little annoyed when Sherlock refuses a second piece of toast. There is a smile for nappy time, almost a laugh when Rosie fusses and cries and hits Sherlock in the head with her toy. There is a smile for the quiet times, soft and cosy, aimed directly at him and getting wider when Sherlock smiles back. There is a smile for lunch, this time almost imperceptible, but Sherlock sees it. There is smile for nap time, the flat quiet and their breathing echoing in the room. (This smile almost makes Sherlock want to crawl into John’s lap and never let go). There is a smile for bath time, definitely a laugh this time, and Sherlock finds himself laughing back. There is a smile for dinner, even if Sherlock doesn’t eat, even if John sits alone at the kitchen table with Rosie, even if they only glance at each other from two opposite corners of the room. There is a smile before going to bed, full of unsaid words and silent promises, and maybe (just maybe) it’s Sherlock’s favorite.

But also, there are the the touches, not so casual or accidental anymore, but Sherlock can’t decide what to make of it for now. There are John’s eyes on him, often soft and trusting, sometimes full of something Sherlock can’t bring himself to name yet. There is John’s laughter, John’s words, John’s glances, John’s body language, John’s lip licking, John’s laugh lines around his eyes, John’s fingers brushing his, John’s footsteps on the stairs, John’s jumper on his chair, John’s mug full of tea next to his, John, John, John.

Things have changed, that much is certain. Rosie’s toys and belongings have now found their place downstairs. They’ve added something to the flat, Sherlock thinks one morning, a touch of life, of color too, and he wonders what their clients think now when they push the door open. Do they see a family? Do they see a mess? Do they see two grown ups raising a baby but not talking about it? No. Probably not the last one.

Four days. In the end, that’s all it takes for Sherlock to accept the fact that there is a chance John might be feeling just as desperate for more as he is.

Still, it doesn’t change the fact that they need to talk. Sherlock counts it down to four conversations in total, at least. He’s certain John is just as aware of this fact as he is, but still, Sherlock finds himself unable to think of any plan of action.

 

**four**

John realises he has been pushing away the moment they will need to talk about _it_ ever since he came back. It’s been almost three weeks now, and he’s not certain they can move into something _more_ if they keep avoiding the subject. John likes to think Sherlock knows now, or at least, that he’s aware of his feelings. He hasn't said a word or done anything about it either, but there is no chance he could have missed it. There are days when John catches him staring, sometimes his hand hanging mid air as if he had just been about to reach or touch, but Sherlock looks away as soon as he catches John’s eye. It’s alright, John thinks, they still have time.

He waits for Rosie to fall asleep one afternoon before sitting on the sofa next to Sherlock. His eyes are closed and he’s probably deep into his own head right now, so John takes advantage of these few stolen minutes. He lets his eyes travel over his face, lingering on Sherlock’s lips and wondering (once more) how they would feel against his. His gaze drops lower, to Sherlock’s neck and his collarbone barely exposed under his shirt. Lower again and John can’t help the loud sigh that escapes him.

“John,” Sherlock calls, and John looks back up.

“I know they still hurt,” John simply says and watches as Sherlock understands exactly what he’s talking about. He sits straighter on the sofa.

“Barely,” he replies in a whisper.

“Still,” John counters, “they hurt, and it’s my fault.”

Sherlock doesn’t correct him, and John thanks him silently. He’s not sure he could deal with misplaced guilt anymore.

“I never apologized, you know,” John continues. “Who beats up their best friend and doesn’t even apologize?” He laughs nervously, fingers tightening into a fist on his lap. “An asshole, for sure.”

“John, yo-”

John shakes his head, “No, let me.” Sherlock nods slowly. “I am not even sure an apology could make it better, but you have to know how sorry I am. What I did is unforgivable, Sherlock, and none of the explanations you could come up with will convince me otherwise. I had no reason, no reason at all, to do that to you. None.”

Sherlock blinks, and blinks again. He’s barely moving, his chest rising slowly and both hands gripping his dressing gown. John remembers to breathe.

“I’ve been thinking about it, a lot,” he continues, eyes dropping to his own lap. “I’ve been thinking about it and have come to the conclusion that at that moment, I was so angry that I-” Another loud sigh. “For god’s sake, what am I even saying. It doesn’t matter if I was angry or not, there is no acceptable excuse.”

Sherlock’s body comes alive next to him, moving closer, “Can I say something?”

John’s eyes find his again. He nods.

“I believe that you were angry too, and while I agree with you, I really do believe you weren’t in control of yourself. Your wife had just died, and my involvement was too much too take. The first punch was for my own sake, to bring me back to reality, but then you simply snapped.”

John feels tears pooling in his eyes, “But that’s the problem, Sherlock. I snapped, who can tell when I will snap aga-”

“I’m stopping you right there, John Watson.” Sherlock cuts in, moving closer and letting one of his hands find John’s forearm. “I was weak, I was drugged, I was thinking I deserved it. I let it happen. We both had a moment of weakness. It won’t happen again.”

“You don’t know,” John whispers.

“I know,” Sherlock asserts.

John closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. One tear slides down his cheek. “You thought you deserved it, Sherlock. I made you think you deserved it.” Sherlock remains silent, but doesn’t let go of his arm. John focuses on the contact. “I did that when you were saving my life over and over again, no matter what it meant for your own.”

“You saved me first, John,” Sherlock says, his voice too soft, and John chokes on a sob. “Let me try to save you again.”

John tenses at the words, eyes fluttering open again and finding Sherlock much closer than expected, “You do it every day, Sherlock,” he breathes out. They don’t move, and John loves him so much it hurts.

 

**three**

Sherlock realises one morning that John is probably thinking he needs to redeem himself.

It’s ridiculous, but he doesn’t say anything. He replays their conversation on the sofa, four days ago, over and over again inside his head. He has every word engraved and locked away in his Mind Palace, along with the feeling of John’s breath against his face and the memory of the single tear escaping his eye. Sherlock had agreed to let John examine his ribs the same afternoon, and after long minutes of neither of them breathing in the small bathroom, John had stood up and declared _it just needs time_.

Sherlock figures he wasn't just talking about his ribs.

Today, Mrs. Hudson asks if she can take Rosie for a walk and John agrees quickly. He’s been afraid his daughter is missing a feminine presence, and he doesn’t need to say it out loud for Sherlock to get it. He’s probably right, anyway, and Sherlock decides to conduct further research about the matter soon.

The flat is strangely quiet the first twenty-four minutes Rosie is gone, but quickly it feels like it did all those years ago. It takes Sherlock’s breath away for a second. He tries to focus on a case Lestrade had sent them two days ago, saying it wasn’t urgent but if Sherlock could take a look at it, he’d appreciate it. It’s relatively boring, but Sherlock is glad to be working again, so he doesn’t complain.

“This is barely a five,” John says all of the sudden, and Sherlock hadn’t realised he had been reading the case file.

Sherlock shrugs.

“Anything I can do to help?” John asks, sitting on the chair facing his.

Sherlock looks over the few pictures and notes on the table, “A man pretends he’s been robbed, rare paintings, but he can’t prove he ever had the said paintings in the first place. He assured the police it was to avoid this sort of problem, but obviously someone heard about it and now no one believes him.”

John frowns, “And Lestrade is taking it seriously?”

“Well, the man has a broken arm and two deep cuts on the chest,” Sherlock explains, showing the pictures to John. “He said he fought with the thief.”

John leans in to look closely at the pictures, and Sherlock watches in silence. He can only see the top of his head, his hair becoming greyer and greyer, and Sherlock finds it hard not to touch. “The cuts seem a bit off.”

Sherlock smiles, “Thought so too.”

John looks back up at him, a small smile on his lips, “Already solved it, didn’t you?”

Sherlock finds himself smiling back, “Yesterday, yes. I was just gathering the last evidence to present to Lestrade.”

John puts the picture away, looking into the void behind him, and Sherlock frowns when his smile dies. “John, what is-”

“Nothing,” John cuts in, shaking his head and getting up. “I better get some formula ready for when Rosie comes back.”

He’s walking away when Sherlock stands up and says, “You don’t need to do this, John.”

“I’m not doing anything,” John replies but doesn’t look at him either.

Sherlock breathes in deeply, “You don’t need to find a way to make me forgive you.” He can see the shiver running through John from here. “There is nothing to forgive, I thought we made that clear last time.”

John’s head drops forwards, “The only thing we made clear is that I don’t deserve you.”

“That is the most r-” Sherlock stops himself. Not good, and probably not what John needs to hear right now. He takes a step toward him, “It was never a question of deserving each other, John.”

“Wasn’t it?” John asks in a whisper.

Sherlock takes another step, his chest almost pressed to John’s back in the ghost of an embrace, “It’s always been a question of accepting the other with his broken past and trying to, somehow, make it better.”

John breathes out loudly, his body shaking slightly again, and Sherlock closes the final distance. He keeps his hands by his own sides, but lets his nose brush John’s hair. They don’t move.

“Is that even possible?”

“The important fact,” Sherlock murmurs, breathing him in, “is that we’re trying, John.”

 

**two**

“She looks so much like Mary,” John whispers one evening, staring down at Rosie, fast asleep in his arms.

Sherlock looks over the book he’s reading, “Does she?”

John nods, not taking his eyes away from her, “She has her nose and lips,” he says before falling silent again. It is amazing to him how much he loves her, what he’s willing to do for this small human being. “Sometimes she looks at me and it’s almost as if Mary is the one staring at me.”

He can hear Sherlock’s thoughts from here, and John hides a smile as he continues, “She will not remember her, you know. Rosie is going to grow up and not remember her own mother.”

It takes another second before Sherlock argues, “There’ll be pictures.”

John takes the time to consider his next words, “No, there won’t be.”

He hears Sherlock put down his book and shift forwards on his chair, “John?”

He looks up, realising they’ve been avoiding this subject for too long after all, and that it is probably time to make things clear. “I don’t want her to remember Mary. She will know that she had a mother, just as she will know her mother wasn’t a person worth remembering. If she wants to, really wants to, I’ll keep one picture. Just one.”

Sherlock stares at him, “Don’t you think she deserves to know?”

John glances back at Rosie, “For as long as possible, I’m going to protect her. When she’s old enough to understand, and maybe even forgive all the lies, we’ll explain it to her.”

It’s almost too quiet but John is certain he can hear Sherlock’s breath catch. He doesn’t realise immediately why, but even when he does, he doesn’t comment on it. He meant it, and Sherlock can figure that on his own.

“Why?” Sherlock asks finally.

John lets out a deep sigh, “She wasn’t a good person, Sherlock, and don’t pretend the opposite. She lied to me from the moment we met, she let me marry her when she knew perfectly well I didn’t want it, not really. She shot you, and not once showed any remorse. She kept teasing me, all the bloody time. Mocking me, looking for the small things that would set me off.”

Sherlock is frowning now, mouth half open in silent questions.

“A part of me loved her,” John adds, “She came into my life at the right time. But even after Rosie was born, I just wanted… out.”

Sherlock nods slowly, most likely processing everything he just said, and John gives him time. He looks back at Rosie, a finger brushing her cheek. She shifts in his arms but doesn’t wake, and John resists the urge to kiss her.

“Is that why you gave me the note that day?” Sherock asks. “Well, Molly gave it to me.”

John glances up at him, “She jumped in front of a bullet to save your life, Sherlock. I was so angry, and for all the wrong reasons. She jumped to save your life and here I was thinking you two had shared something so deep that she chose to die to save you.”

“You have to know she never meant anything to me besides a way to make you happy, John.”

John forces himself to hold his stare, “I know that now, and I’m sorry for the way I reacted. I’m still not sure I understand entirely what happened after her death. I think I felt guilty, for the cheating, for not being able to love her, and for some reason I started hallucinating her everywhere I went.”

“People cope in various ways,” Sherlock declares, and John smiles.

“To be honest, I think she was just a representation of my own struggles,” he replies, sighing. “I’ll probably need to find another therapist to have all the answers, but she’s gone now.”

Sherlock falls silent, practically sitting on the edge of his chair now, and their knees would be brushing if John just shifted forward a little.

“Can I ask one more thing?”

John nods.

“Do you regret the life you could have had with her, had she been different?”

John guesses all the others questions this one hides and replies, “No.”

 

**one**

The most important conversation they need to have happens at night, and strangely, it feels like it couldn’t have gone any other way.

Sherlock emerges from his bedroom after two hours of sleep, quite enough for the night, and he is about to engross himself in a new experiment when he notices John’s figure on the sofa. He walks silently to the living room, not sure if he’s awake or not, but John’s eyes find his as soon as he’s close enough to properly discern him. Sherlock sways on his feet for a second or two, and then John is glancing at the empty space next to him, so Sherlock sits.

The darkness is somehow reassuring as John exhales loudly next to him. Sherlock tries not to think of their thighs touching or the way John’s hand flexes on his lap. He waits.

“You faked your death for two years,” John finally says.

Sherlock exhales, “Oh.”

John is still looking at something in front of him, “You called me and made me watch as you jumped from a building. You made sure your body, covered in blood and unresponsive, was on the pavement when I finally managed to walk again. You let me search for a pulse, let me try to reach for you.”

Sherlock feels his chest burn. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

“You spent two years away, risking your life, and let me believe you were dead. You made that decision and for some fucking reason, you chose to tell me you were alive by making a joke of it.”

Sherlock isn’t sure how a human’s breathing system is supposed to work anymore.

“You did all of that,” John continues, turning his head to face him, “even if you knew.”

Sherlock wants to run just as much as he wants to take John in his arms.

 _The most important fact is that we’re trying_.

“He was going to kill you,” Sherlock breathes out. “He was going to kill you if I didn’t die, if I didn’t take that jump.”

John seems to consider his answer for a moment, eyes roaming over his face and his breathing just a little more ragged, “You didn’t have to lie for two years.”

“If it meant keeping you safe,” Sherlock confesses, “I would have lied for much more longer than that.”

John laughed nervously, “See, here we are again, you trying to save my life and me blaming you for it.”

Sherlock reaches for his hand before he can stop himself, “Not this time, John, I won’t let you do that to yourself anymore. I made you watch, I made you identify my body, I let you grieve. You have every right to be angry at me, every right, do you hear me.” John doesn’t reply but his hand tightens around Sherlock’s. “You have every right to never trust me again, to never let yourself believe you’re safe, to never let yourself believe I won’t hurt you ag-”

John raises their joined hands to his chest, shaking his head, “I trust you, Sherlock, I trust you with my daughter, I trust you with my own life.”

Sherlock can feel John’s heartbeat but can’t bring himself to focus long enough to calculate its rate. It’s not important, he tells himself. This. This, right now, this is important.

John’s voice is so low when he speaks again that Sherlock has to lean closer, “Just promise me-” sharp inhale. “Promise me - that- is going to stay the only time you do it.”

Throat dry and chest aching, Sherlock nods and presses their hands further against John’s body. He craves the contact now, craves more. He can’t think of the two years he spent away, can’t think of what he imagined, of what he fantasized about. He can’t think of what he thought he’d be coming back to, can’t think about his hopes crashing on the floor of a posh restaurant.

“John,” he says in a breath, not certain what he’s trying to say, but needing John to know he couldn’t survive another minute without him.

“One day,” John begins, squeezing his hand. “One day, I want you to tell me about those two years.”

Sherlock swallows with difficulty, “Will you tell me about your two years?”

John murmurs a soft _yes_ and Sherlock is suddenly afraid he’s going to let go. Not realising what he’s doing, Sherlock uses his free hand to pull John closer by his shirt, and without another word being exchanged, Sherlock finds himself inside John’s arms. Sherlock is still holding on to his hand, and John doesn’t seem to mind. His nose is brushing Sherlock’s temple and his breath is warm against his skin. Sherlock closes his eyes and commits every detail to memory.

An second passes, or maybe an eternity, before John starts to fall onto his back, pulling Sherlock with him. Refusing to overthink it, Sherlock lets John manoeuvre them both on the sofa, lying on their sides, hands still joined and Sherlock’s face tucked against his neck.

Sherlock lets John’s scent and breathing lull him back to sleep.

 

**\-------- + --------**

 

John wakes up first.

Sherlock is breathing down his neck, one hand closed around his shirt, the other still locked with John’s.

John keeps his eyes closed.

_I love you. I love you and I’m going to make you happy, Sherlock Holmes. I’m going to try harder, I’m going to give myself entirely to you. I love you, please, don’t ever go away again._

 

____________

 

Sherlock wakes up and pretends to be still sleeping the moment he realises John is already awake.

He listens to his regular breathing, takes his pulse this time and dares to taste his skin with a brush of his lips.

Sherlock keeps his eyes closed.

_I need you in a way I’ve never needed anyone before. I need you and I’m not sure I can function without you anymore, John Watson. I need you to stay forever, please, say you’ll stay forever._

 

**\-------- + --------**

**un**

Rosie is the one forcing them apart that morning. Sherlock remains still as John begins to sit up, their hands still clasped together. Sherlock doesn’t try to repress the long shiver running through him at the lost of contact. He feels John’s eyes on him, so he opens his own and meets his gaze. They don’t talk, barely breathing, and John smiles. Squeezing his hand softly, Sherlock returns his smile and with a heavy breath, he lets him go.

He doesn’t get up, not yet. He listens to John’s footsteps on the stairs and then the door to his room opening. He listens to Rosie’s babbling and John’s voice as he greets her good morning. He listens to the questions John asks her as he changes her, guessing the smile in his voice and imagining the way his entire face must be lighting up at this very moment. Sherlock listens for as long as he can, taking it all in, and with something strangely light in his chest, he gets up.

By the time John comes back downstairs, Sherlock already has all of their breakfasts ready.

“Thank you,” John smiles when he sets Rosie in her chair before sitting down.

Sherlock shrugs but hands him his toast with (he thinks) the very same smile on his own lips. They eat in silence, only interrupted by Rosie’s babbling now and then. John always answers her, even if it’s just a _is that so?_ and this morning, Sherlock allows himself to ask,

“Why do you do that?”

John frowns, “What?”

“Replying to her as if you understand what she’s saying,” Sherlock replies, nodding at Rosie and catching a biscuit before it falls on the floor.

“So that she knows someone is listening,” John replies, his smile widening. “She doesn’t understand what I’m saying either, but she knows that when she’s trying to communicate in her own way, there is someone who’s going to reply.”

Sherlock glances at Rosie, back to John, and Rosie again. “Someone is replying,” he repeats and nods. “This is quite clever, you know. I’m certain you’re improving her chances to talk early, providing her with vocabulary and the want to be actually understood. Have you ever tried to initiate a conversation with her? Does she reply? This is actually very interesting.”

He looks back at John and finds it suddenly hard to breathe. He’s not sure what it is exactly, but there is something in the way John’s is looking at him at this very moment that shuts down every thought inside his head and makes his stomach flutter.

“Sherlock Holmes,” John starts, the softness in his voice making Sherlock shiver. “I am i-”

“Stop,” Sherlock cuts him off, and empresses himself to add, “Not now.” He glances back at Rosie. “Now we have someone else to take care of, now is- not a good time.”

_When I kiss you for the first time I want to be able to do so for a very, very long time afterwards._

For a moment, Sherlock is afraid he just ruined absolutely everything, and he’s ready to explain in great detail what he’s trying to say, but then John is smiling again. He nods, eyes darting to Rosie and then the clock, “Now is not a good time, yes.”

The rest of the morning and early afternoon is filled with a tension that threatens to explode at any moment. Sherlock spends over half an hour in his bedroom, pretending to change when he is in fact going over his mental notes concerning kissing. It’s ridiculous, and he knows it, but the mere thought of John’s lips makes his entire body shake with anticipation. Being in the same room as John is even worse. They can’t stop staring, either at each other hands, lips or eyes, and Sherlock thinks about his secret stash of cigarettes a lot (but no, he doesn’t want to taste like tobacco when John kisses him).

When John takes Rosie up for her nap twenty minutes earlier than usual, neither of them mention it.

Sherlock sits on his chair, legs bouncing and his heart beating much too fast. He gets up and starts to pace. _It is going to happen_ . He lets it sink in. _It is going to happen. You are going to be kissed by John Watson._ Sherlock stops and stands still in the middle of the living room. _It is happening_.

John startles him with two hands suddenly on his hips, and Sherlock focuses back on reality. John is right there, staring up at him and there is a slight tremor in his arms. He’s smiling but there is something fragile inside his pupils. Sherlock thinks, _he’s beautiful_.

“Sherlock Holmes,” John says, a memory of the words he spoke this morning, and Sherlock’s breath catches. “I am in love with you.”

Something close to a sob echoes in the room.

“I am in love with you,” John says again, taking a step closer and pressing their bodies together. “I have been for a very long time, and if you’ll have me, I’d like to be in love with you for an even longer one.”

Sherlock’s hands come alive and he holds on to John’s shirt, opening his mouth to reply but another broken sound escapes him. He inhales deeply, closing his eyes for the briefest second before staring back into John’s. One of John’s hands comes up to stroke his cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of his lips.

“John,” he finally manages to whisper, already knowing he won’t be able to say much more, not now, but John seems to understand.

He smiles, his hand on Sherlock’s hip tightening, and he raises himself higher as he says, “Can I kiss you?”

Sherlock only has the time to nod before there are two gentle, trembling lips being pressed against his own, and then he forgets about everything else. He releases a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, and John pulls away. Just a millimeter away. Already too much. Sherlock isn’t sure who moves first next, but they’re kissing again, and this time Sherlock presses back into the touch. John’s lips feel like nothing he had imagined, and he isn’t surprised to realise John is destined to remain a mystery.

“Okay?” John breathes out when they part.

Sherlock nods quickly, seeking his mouth again, and they’re both smiling into the next kiss. John does something new, just a slight movement to the right that results in Sherlock’s lower lip being trapped between John’s, and John is definitely far from being an idiot. Slowly, they learn each other lips with soft nips and sucks. Sherlock finds himself growing bolder as the minutes pass, and soon they’re both panting.

“God, Sherlock,” John gasps, his hand now pressed against Sherlock’s nape. “This is even better than I’ve ever imagined.”

Sherlock slides both hands up John’s back, “I agree,” he smiles.

John laughs, a light sound taking Sherlock by surprise, and he’s quick to kiss him again. John is still laughing when he pulls away, “What was that.”

“Wanted to know what your laughter tasted like,” Sherlock explains, finding it hard to hold back his own laughter.

John’s entire face lights up, “So?”

Sherlock feels his chest expand, something warm and comforting and _right_ taking all the place there, and says, “Exquisite.”

 

**deux**

John moves all of his clothes to the downstairs bedroom, _Our bedroom, John_ , Sherlock had declared the first night John had shared his bed. Smiling to himself, he hangs another shirt and leans down to grab another. Sherlock is currently feeding Rosie in the kitchen and John can hear him talking about bees. Ever since John had explained to him why he talks back to her, Sherlock has taken it upon himself to never stop talking to Rosie. He explains everything to her, from the reason why her toys fall on the floor when she drops it to the ingredients inside her formula. Rosie listens, fascinated, every time.

“John,” Sherlock calls, “remember not to mess my-”

“I know, not to mess up your sock index,” John cuts in, barely holding back a laugh. “I’ve learned my lesson, thank you.”

He could still remember the time Mrs. Hudson had dared putting Sherlock’s clothes away for him, and the very long and detailed explanation about socks’ color and matter that had followed.

Sherlock is back to talking to Rosie now, and John puts away his last shirt before sitting on the bed. He sighs, smiling and staring at their shared wardrobe. His and Sherlock’s. Theirs. He laughs this time and lets himself fall on his back. Closing his eyes, John breathes out slowly. Their first kiss had only happened yesterday, and there have been many more since, but John can’t help to think about Sherlock’s eyes right before he had leant in. For a second, John finds himself hoping he would still remember it in forty years, when he would forget about his glasses or the name of their Prime Minister. He wanted, no needed, to remember Sherlock’s face before their first kiss for the rest of his life.

A sudden body pressing against his own makes him yell with surprise and he opens his eyes to find Sherlock hovering above him, “You’re taking too long.”

John smiles, “Sorry.”

Sherlock stares down at him, “You could make it up to me.”

“How so?” John asks, his smile growing wider and both hands coming to rest on Sherlock’s nape.

Sherlock’s gaze drops to his lips, “You could kiss it up to me.”

John shakes his head as he laughs again, “You just made that up,” he says but brings Sherlock’s head down anyway.

“Maybe,” Sherlock replies as their lips brush, “but it is still a valid option.”

John rolls his eyes, “Come here.”

He presses their mouths together, and though Sherlock had been supporting his weight on both arms earlier, he now all but falls on top of him. John welcomes him with a sigh and deepens the kiss, letting their tongues meet slowly. He lets both hands thread into Sherlock’s hair, enjoying the soft sound of contentment low in Sherlock’s throat. He’s not sure how long they stay like this, but when it becomes less and less evident to hide their growing arousal, Rosie calls from the other room.

“Is she going to do that a lot?” Sherlock asks, a bit breathless and John wants to devour him.

“Probably,” he replies honestly, “maybe even when she’s much older, and then it could be on purpose!”

Sherlock’s eyes shine with something bright for a second, and John feels his chest tighten, “Tell me.”

Sherlock rolls to his side and John follows him, refusing to let go of him just yet. Sherlock inhales deeply before saying, “She’s going to grow old, you’re going to grow old, and you’ll both still be here.”

John kisses him again, breathing against his lips, “You’re going to grow old too, and I’ll be right here to witness it.” Sherlock holds him tighter. “I’ve never said it out loud, but the three of us, we are a family now. This is very long term, until the end of my life kind of stuff.”

Sherlock laughs, rolling his eyes but staying close as he whispers, “I never thought I’d have a family.”

John kisses him harder, _Neither did I._

 

**trois**

Sherlock throws his head back against the pillow, his entire body arching on the bed and his fingers gripping the sheets. He moans, the sound low and almost guttural, and he’s surprised he’s even capable of such a noise.

John seems to like it.

“Oh fuck, Sherlock,” he pants, rocking against him and rutting their clothed erections together, “You are magnificent.”

“John,” Sherlock gasps, one hand reaching for him and finding his shoulder. He holds on, tightly. “I need-”

John presses them harder together, “Yes, yes,” he pants, leaning down to kiss his neck. “Anything.”

Sherlock slides his hand up his shoulder and nape, holding him there. He’s about to combust, he’s certain of it. It’s too much, it’s not enough. “John, please.”

John’s lips find his, and Sherlock lets the kiss bring him back to reality. He kisses John hungrily, locking one leg around his waist and rocking them together harder. He knows it’s only the beginning, that soon John is going to get rid of both of their pants and proceed to make him lose his mind, but Sherlock almost (almost) wants to come now so that they can do it all over again.

“God, you’re beautiful,” John breathes against his skin, starting his descent lower and lower, until he’s pushing Sherlock’s pants down. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“John!” Sherlock cries out when John’s mouth closes around his erection, sucking at the head slightly and his tongue teasing in soft licks. “Yes, more.”

John licks one long strip along his length before letting go, almost getting out of bed so he can remove both of their pants. Sherlock forces himself to focus back on him, eyes finding John’s cock and feeling the same irresistible urge for _more_. He sits up on the bed, using both arms to bring John back against him, and licking into his mouth.

Sherlock had discovered, after a lot of soft words and encouragements from John, that he didn’t have to be shy when it concerned sex. _I want to hear all of you, to taste all of you, to have all of you. I want you to want it just as badly, I want you to show me just how much you want it. Don’t hold back, never hold back. Let me hear you, let me love you_. And Sherlock had let go, had given himself entirely to John and had taken everything he wanted from him too.

“I want you, god, how I want you,” John pants against his lips, manoeuvring them both down again and settling between his legs. Sherlock locks him here, rocking them together and silently asking for more. “Do you know how much I want you?”

Sherlock isn’t sure if he’s nodding or shaking his head, but it doesn’t matter. John wants him the same way Sherlock craves him.

“You have me,” Sherlock moans, canting his hips higher and shivering when one of John’s lubed fingers finds his entrance. “You have me.”

John groans, recapturing his lips, and pushing it in. Sherlock loses all capacity to think then, rocking back on John’s finger, already desperate for more. John is still being careful, taking his time to prepare him and sliding his fingers in and out so very slowly. Sherlock adores every second of it. He adores John’s focused eyes despite the passion dancing in them. He adores John’s sweaty body, his hot breath and deep moans. He adores John’s lips when they’re sucking, nipping, kissing all over him. Sherlock adores him, adores him, adores him.

But then comes the time when Sherlock is ready, “More than ready, please, please”, and time seems to slow down as John guides himself inside his body. Sherlock welcomes him with a cry and an arched back, all of his ten fingers digging into John’s back and arse. He welcomes him in and already fears the moment he’ll have to let him go again.

“Sherlock, oh god, Sherlock,” John chants against his lips.

“I love you,” Sherlock can’t help but moan, “I love you.”

John is already lost into their dance, bodies slamming together and breaths mixing in the middle. Sherlock doesn’t want to miss a second of it. He moans and gasps and tightens around John every time he hits his prostate, sending thrills of pleasure down his spine. This, this is their love, messy and uncontrollable, neither of them being able to stop it from spilling out, from taking over their minds and bodies. This is their love, and Sherlock finds it incredibly fascinating.

“You feel amazing,” John pants, driving into him harder. “You feel bloody amazing.”

Sherlock wants to tell him that he never felt anything like this, that this body must have been made for John’s because there is no other logical explanation for what he’s experiencing at this very moment. He wants to tell him that they can never stop, that this needs to last forever and he’s not sure he’ll able to breathe again.

“John, you-” he starts but then there is another thrust, another wave of pleasure, and the words get lost inside a moan, and another, and another.

Sherlock can tell the moment he’s about to come, his cock entirely untouched and his every sense on fire. He pulls away from the kiss, mouth hanging open and staring up into John’s eyes. The bare passion and love he reads in them are enough to take him over the edge, and he comes crying out John’s name.

Lost inside his own pleasure, Sherlock can only register John’s sudden earnest thrusts, and he forces himself to pay attention again because John’s face as he orgasms must be the most intense thing Sherlock has ever seen.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, oh god, Sher-”

Sherlock moans as he feels John coming inside him, pulsing for several seconds as he cries out his name over and over again. He welcomes John into his arms, locking him there and breathing him in. Ever since that first night, Sherlock had made it clear John can’t pull away until there is no other choice. Sherlock needs him inside his body for as long as humanly possible.  

“Does it ever stop?” he finds himself asking, the words spoken against John’s skin.

“What?” John asks, shifting so he is looking at him.

Sherlock leans in for a kiss, still panting, “We’ve been having sex for the past three days,” he starts to explain, “and there is not a moment where I don’t want you. Not a second when I don’t want this.”

John smiles against his lips, a lazy, happy smile that makes Sherlock want to kiss him even more. “Between you and me, I don’t think it’ll ever stop for us. The consequences of having waited too long, maybe.”

Sherlock smiles and kisses him some more and thinks, _even if you had taken me to bed that very first night, John, I still believe I would crave more of you all the time_.

 

**quatre**

“I am so very happy, John,” Mrs Hudson declares as she passes him the last plate.

John smiles, setting it in the sink and starting to wash it, “I am too, trust me.”

She starts to dry the dishes, leaning against the counter next to him, “I have to say, with everything that happened, I was starting to believe you two would never get there.”

John stares at the sink and sighs, “I think we almost missed our chance, after I came back I mean. After this whole mess with Mary and Culverton Smith, we almost gave up. Or at least, I almost did.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hudson sighs, putting a friendly hand on his shoulder, “You didn’t, and isn’t that what matters?”

John nods, smiling at her before glancing at Sherlock and Rosie in the living room, “Yes, you’re right.”

They had invited Mrs. Hudson for lunch, Sherlock saying she deserved to know first after all they’d put her through during all these years. John had laughed but agreed, and the tears in their landlady’s eyes when Sherlock had told her had sufficed to convince him Sherlock had been right.

“Now, if you two ever need some time alone, you don’t hesitate, alright?” She pointed at Rosie, “I’ll take care of her for the entire night if you want.”

John is about to thank her when he catches Sherlock’s eyes, smiling and roaming all over his body before focusing back on Rosie. “You know what, I think I’m going to take you up on that offer. Is it possible tonight?”

Mrs. Hudson is practically beaming as she replies, “Of course it’s possible tonight.”

John doesn't mention his plan to Sherlock until the last moment, putting some of Rosie’s clothes and toys into a bag and dropping it by the door. Sherlock looks up from the book he’s reading and frowns. It takes another second or two before his eyes widen, and John smiles, “Go get ready, Mister Holmes.”

John catches him as he passes by, stealing a kiss before letting him go. He takes advantage of the fifteen minutes it’ll take Sherlock to change to bring Rosie downstairs. Mrs. Hudson listens carefully as he explains her bedtime routine, and Rosie almost doesn’t cry when she takes her. “You two go have a good time,” Mrs. Hudson smiles, “I have it under control.”

“Thank you again,” John says before kissing Rosie and climbing back to 221B.

Sherlock is waiting in the kitchen, breathtakingly beautiful, so John tells him so with another kiss. Sherlock takes his hand and doesn’t let go, even during the cab ride, and John doesn’t think once about complaining. Angelo has their usual table ready in less than a second, and John winks at Sherlock before saying, “I think we’ll have another candle for the table tonight.”

“Of course, gladly,” Angelo replies immediately and brings two more candles.

Sherlock waits until he’s gone before saying, “You didn’t have to.”

“Maybe, but I wanted to,” John says, his heg finding Sherlock’s under the table. Sherlock smiles and there’s a faint blush on his neck, “You’re beautiful.”

The blush deepens, “You realise you’re saying that out loud?”

John laughs and stands up to kiss him because there is no way he can stop himself, murmuring a quiet “I don’t plan to stop” against his lips. Sherlock kisses him back for long seconds, and then John is sitting back with a need for more.

“I mean it, you know,” he says after a moment, “You are beautiful, and maybe even more since you’ve let yourself believe it.”

“You mean since you gave me a long and detailed speech about it in the middle of the night,” Sherlock corrects him, a playful smile on his lips.

“Exactly,” John approves.

“I blame you entirely if people think I’ve softened now,” Sherlock says, “I know you said this would complete me as a human being, but for some cases, it is quite useful t- John?”

John shakes his head, “Sorry, I was just-” He stops. They said no more secrets, no more thoughts they will hold back from each other. “I was so jealous at that time,” he finally says.

Sherlock reaches for his hand on the table, and John clings into it. He doesn’t like to think about the Woman, the same intense, nerve wrenching feeling taking over him. He knows it’s irrational, especially now that Sherlock has told him in many ways exactly who’s he’s in love with.

“John,” Sherlock says softly, “You do realise Irene Adler only likes to play games, and that she’s most likely happily married by now, to her assistant, another woman.”

John lets out a deep breath, “I know, she told me already, but when I think about-”

“Stop thinking about it, then,” Sherlock offers, his thumb stroking his palm.

John looks down at their joined hands, nodding. He’s not sure it’s going to be that easy, but he’s willing to try. “I’m afraid I’m going to be awfully jealous, all the time,” he confesses.

Sherlock leans over the table, “Good. I like it when you’re jealous.”

John looks back at him, grins and steals another kiss from his too tempting lips.

 

**cinq**

Sherlock wakes up warm. The light from the window is too bright and he rolls to his other side, making sure not to wake John. He has both arms around Sherlock’s waist, and is currently snoring lightly. Sherlock finds it incredibly endearing. He keeps his eyes closed for another second, and sighs happily. He estimates they have another ten to fifteen minutes before Rosie wakes up, and if he’s silent enough, he maybe can manage to take care of her without waking John up.

Rosie had said her first word yesterday, after months of talking to her every day and trying to make her repeat syllable after syllable. In the end, she went for “Daddy” which is both unsurprising and absolutely brilliant. John had stared and stared before taking her in his arms and kissing her. He had then turned to Sherlock and said, “Now we need to work on Papa.”

Sherlock had waited until they were both in bed later that night to whisper how lucky he felt and how much he loved him. John hadn’t said anything but held him tight for a very long time. Even after 3 months and eleven days, Sherlock still has trouble believing he’s allowed to fall asleep in John’s arms every night. It hasn’t been the easiest three months, but Sherlock likes to think they’re managing just fine. The fact that they talk more is helping a lot. Whether it’s a conversation in the middle of the afternoon, both of them in their chairs and Rosie fast asleep, or a conversation in the middle of the night, their breath meeting as they speak, their voices quiet, they don’t leave matters unsaid anymore.

“Morning, love,” John says suddenly and Sherlock curses himself for not having felt him waking up.

Sherlock pulls away just enough to look at him, “You should go back to sleep.”

John’s eyes flutter open, “Why?”

“Because I wanted to take care of everything this morning and let you rest,” Sherlock replies, sighing. “That was the plan until now, anyway.”

John’s arms tighten around him, “Have I told you that I love you lately?”

Sherlock knows it’s more of a rhetorical question than a serious one, but he answers anyway, “Yesterday afternoon while we were working on the murder case.”

“Now that you say it, it feels like a strange moment to tell you,” John replies, and Sherlock rolls his eyes, leaning in for a proper good morning.

 

 _Please, never stop telling me_ , Sherlock asks silently into the kiss.

 _Deal,_ John answers.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3


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